A cold winter night and Rafael. The room was dark, the chairs were worn, and the café bustled.

That time in history when tourists had not permeated the city, and that time of the year when the deep freeze kept the streets empty late at night.

I don’t remember any conversation we shared, only his burning stare that held me hostage time and time again.

He was my type, but I did not know it then.

We drank cappuccino and ate Italian pastries here on an unremarkable night sometime in 1986.

We rode in on white shire horses, maybe a few days late
Buried in surf where we lay, twas a poet’s fate

On a leisurely journey we caught a big squall
Now I’m singing my words in the great poet’s hall

Your pilgrimage is touching, your journey not at an end
I see my sonnets and stanzas have become your best friend

Read to me lovingly on the surf now covered with sand
We’ll walk barefooted, together, cradled, hand in hand

My words on your lips, will at last set me free
Please read them aloud, as I ebb back out to sea

Alla prossima, I’ll be waiting! if I’m just out of reach?
Speak my words as your walking on Via Reggio beach